If you controlled the grid, it was possible to keep yourself off it.
In its entire forty-two-year existence, no one had ever left the American Heritage Foundation except to retire or die. This was not because of the compensation, which was adequate but nothing great. And it wasn’t because of the benefits package or perks or any of the other usual measures of what makes one job more desirable than another. Everyone who worked in this office thought they had the greatest job in the world because it was their mission. They effected real change in the real world on a regular basis, and no one outside them had a clue.
They were the puppet masters.
Elected officials, political appointees, committees, cabinets, intelligence directors, and everyone else who made Washington their personal playground did so for only limited periods of time. What could a person, even a really talented one, truly accomplish in renewable four-year chunks of time? The answer was very little, at least according to American Heritage doctrine. And most politicians were not very talented. The vast majority of them were little more than children who needed guidance and direction, not unlike movie stars. Give them a part to play, and if they play it well, reward them. But if they don’t, get rid of them.
Ronald Reagan was their shining example; God rest his soul.
The current director of the American Heritage Foundation, Bob Stenson, revered Reagan almost as much as his predecessor and mentor had. Lawrence Walters, one of the original seven founders, had a knack for spotting talent before anyone else. He was one of the first to suggest to the modestly talented actor that he would make a great politician. Walters also recognized the talent in Stenson when he was still only a midlevel CIA agent. Walters handpicked him. Recruited him. Trained him. And gradually brought him up through the Foundation’s ranks, over nineteen years, to the point where he inherited the mantle in 2005 when Alzheimer’s forced the last of the founders to step aside.
If kings could select their princes instead of simply bearing them, it would be done like that.
As in all father-son relationships, things weren’t always smooth between Walters and Stenson. Tensions arose when opinions differed, such as in the case of Henry Townsend. Stenson had urged Walters as early as 2002 to end their relationship with the derelict representative from New York. But Walters insisted that the younger Townsend’s proclivities could be useful tools to keep him in line. Over time, however, it became apparent that the man-boy congressman simply couldn’t control his adolescent urges.
When the old man finally decided to retire, due to increasingly poor health, he privately admitted that he should have done something about the derelict senator long ago. Walters had allowed his history with and affection for the embarrassment’s father to cloud his judgment. Stenson stated with absolute candor that he was not about to put another jackass in the White House. One idiot son was enough for a generation. With that, Walters left his office for the last time, confident that the American Heritage Foundation was in good hands.
Stenson sat behind his Steelcase tanker desk, reviewing the day’s communications to make sure there wasn’t anything he had missed. He was reading messages on his encrypted device, which matched the ones carried by Corbin Davis and Gloria Pruitt, as well as dozens of others. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Everyone who was supposed to check in had done so. It was just another day at the office. Stenson called his wife, Millie, to let her know he would be leaving soon. She was always so happy when he came home at a reasonable hour. Dinner would be on the table. His favorite, pork loin.
CHAPTER 24
Tisch School of the Arts, New York University, May 24, 9:07 a.m.
Professor Jacob Hendrix entered his office to find that a dozen envelopes and messages had been slipped under the door. Some were flyers about student productions. The rest was administrative junk from the dean’s office or invitations from other faculty members. He plopped all of it on his desk without looking at it and turned to his computer. He logged in and pulled up Wikipedia, where he typed a search for acoustic archeology.
The moment Jacob hit “Enter,” an alert triggered on one of the many screens in the basement office of Michael Barnes. Certain keywords immediately triggered an alert if typed at one of the many IP addresses he was tracking. With a few keystrokes, Barnes could now see exactly what was on Jacob’s computer screen. Barnes read the Wikipedia entry right along with Jacob, about the “garden variety” of acoustic archeology that had been featured in several investigative shows. The listing included the mention of “the future possibility of being able to re-create any type of sound wave,” but that “such technology remains in the realm of science fiction.”
Barnes had been doing this kind of work long enough that he didn’t believe much in chance. Almost nothing happened purely out of coincidence. Still, it was a possibility here. The search could be nothing more than the result of an innocent conversation with Skylar.
That possibility was removed the moment Jacob typed Edward Parks. There was no Wikipedia entry for the name. A Google search for it brought up three entries: an attorney who was a partner at the DC law firm of Hogan Lovells; a twenty-four-year-old baritone who was currently studying at the Yale School of Music; and an orthopedic surgeon in Denver.
There was nothing about Eddie, and there never would be. The same was true of the search for echo box. There would never be any information available about the device of Eddie’s creation. There was, however, an abundance of data regarding another device with the same name. This echo box was a device used to check the output power and spectrum of a radar transmitter. Anyone who was curious could learn all they wanted about that particular machine.
Barnes picked up the phone in his office and dialed a two-digit extension.
Stephen Millard recognized Michael Barnes’s extension and immediately picked up the phone. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes. What can I do for you?”
“I need to see him.”
“I’m afraid Dr. Fenton is tied up in meetings all afternoon.”
“Tell him it’s urgent.”
Dr. Fenton had given Stephen strict instructions, when he was first hired, that if Mr. Barnes ever needed him urgently, Stephen was to interrupt him no matter what. In seven years of working here, that had never happened. This was the first time that Michael Barnes had ever said something was urgent. “One moment, please.” He placed Barnes on hold, then quickly jotted down a note, which he carried to Dr. Fenton’s door.
Stephen knocked lightly, then sheepishly poked his head inside. Dr. Fenton was sitting with a prospective new patient, a red-haired teenage girl whose hands constantly twitched. She sat nervously next to her mother, who looked utterly exhausted and like she couldn’t wait to hand over her daughter. Among the reasons was that the girl had blown up their garage trying to achieve cold fusion. What the mother didn’t realize was that with proper equipment, her daughter just might succeed.
Fenton looked angrily at Stephen and turned apologetically to the mother. “Privacy is normally a top priority among our staff.”
“Please pardon the interruption.” Stephen walked briskly to the doctor and handed him the note, which he had folded in half.
Fenton read the note and turned to his assistant. “Were these his exact words?”
“Yes, sir,” Stephen answered nervously. “I wouldn’t have interrupted otherwise.”
Dr. Fenton stood up and spoke calmly. “Stephen, this is Betina Winters and her lovely daughter, Rachel. Why don’t you show them around our facility? It shouldn’t take me more than a few minutes to rejoin you.”
Fenton picked up the phone as soon as Stephen ushered out the mother and daughter. “Get up here.”
CHAPTER 25
Harmony House, Woodbury, New Jersey, May 24, 11:32 a.m.
Lunch on Wednesdays was hot dogs and tater tots. Eddie rated today’s a four and a five, respectively. The vegetable was corn, which he found too soupy. He spit out the one bite he took and only gave it a one. Dessert was a choice of green Jell-O or vanilla pudding. Eddie took both. He sampled the Jell-O, but thought it too firm. Two. He shoved it away. The pudding, however, was so good that he gave it a rare five plus. He licked the small dish clean and returned to the service line.